


Vir Adahlen

by jillyfae



Series: together we are stronger than the one [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Culture Shock, Dalish, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dalish lore may not have been quite enough preparation for working with so many humans (and dwarves), and especially not for falling in love with one of them. But maybe it can help make sense of it all, anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vir Adahlen

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing this while only a little way into my first actual play-through of the game ... _please_ don't reference later relationship or plot developments in the comments. Thank you. :)

**Emerald Graves**

* * *

I like Scout Harding. 

I do 

But I can't decide if I'm going to weep, or threaten to slap her. 

Luckily she's a smart woman, and she turns and leaves me alone as soon as she manages an apology. 

As if I don't know why there are so many trees, why the forest is named for death. 

The wolf makes things a little better. 

He is so beautiful, smooth stone, familiar lines, almost like the artwork on the aravels. 

Keeper Deshanna would be so proud, to know she'd kept the style right, despite all the other things we've lost. 

I tilt my head, trying to remember the shape of him, so I can include a sketch in my next letter back to the Clan. I let my fingers trace worn edges, to keep his memory fresh. His head is warm in the sunlight, and the sides are cool from the grass and moss, and I am smiling when Blackwall comes to stand beside me. 

"Inquisitor." 

He just nods, and we neither of us say anything else, but I can feel the smile in his voice, the solid weight of him beside me, and for just a moment I let myself enjoy it. 

I think _how beautiful, these Dales,_ and it's bittersweet, because we lost them, but at least I've gotten to see them. 

I am going to kill all these so called _Freemen_ infecting this beautiful place, where if the world was fair there wouldn't be any men at all, though I am much too old to wish for a fair world anymore, and then I am going to go back to my house in the sky. 

It's a good plan. 

It's rubbish. 

The first patrol of mercenaries dies easily enough. Don't even see us before I've got an arrow in one's back, and Blackwall lifts his head towards me, when the last one falls, and I can't see his face, but I know he's got a grin. 

_Didn't leave me much to do._

It aches, his voice in my head, in my heart, and I'm smiling again. 

Which is when I see the stone, at the top of the hill, and the ache twists into something else, as I wonder what else is hiding here in the Dales, what lost art I might have found, what new sketch I can plan. 

It's not ours though, not of The People. 

It's a woman, tall, with a pointed crown, sharp and heavy as a blade, and I know, _I know_ ,who she is, why, _so proud they won, we lost, we always lose, they're so happy to show us, to kill us,_ and I can't stand, and my hand is braced on the stone, _just like the wolf's stone_ , and I can't, _I can't, I can't ..._

I'm working for her now, in _her name_ , I am the sword, the eye, the very things that have always hated me, always killed me and mine, will always ... I'm helping _them._

Creators forgive me, I kissed one of them. Am half in - 

I see Blackwall move, and I shake my head, and the question dies in his eyes, the _my lady_ I can feel in my heart never quite passes his lips, and I turn, as my stomach rolls and I'm going to be sick, but I can't, _I can't_ , and I'm half way down the hill before I know what my feet are doing, and I catch a glimpse of Solas' familiar graceful glide behind me, _between me and them,_ all the way back to camp. 

The Inquisition followers look up as I slide back into camp, so soon, _too soon,_ and they're looking me right in the face and not a one of them sees me, not really, not a one of them thinks _Dalish,_ because it doesn't matter to them, isn't anything but a story for other people. 

I don't matter, not who I really am, just who they think I am, just this person who carries the Mark for them. 

Always the Mark. 

I can never go back to my Clan, not with this, _permanent, Anchor,_ a twist of the Beyond caught between my fingers, clinging to my dreams, it will never be safe. 

I will never be safe. 

I am glad no one approaches as I head for my tent; I can feel the weight of my dagger on my hip, of the arrows in my quiver, and I am afraid of what I will do if someone tries to touch me. 

I lash the flaps down, and my breath is too heavy, sharp in my mouth and my chest, but quiet, _quiet, have to be quiet,_ canvas hides no truths, nor lies, and if I make too much noise even Solas' arrogance will not stop Blackwall and he mustn't, _mustn't,_ because I will push, too hard, harder than he deserves, harder than I could forgive, to make him leave. 

I want to leave. 

The edges of the sigils on my coat are too smooth to cut into my fingers, and they latch too tightly to easily remove. The first slides free, at last, and I fling it to the ground, scowling as it settles, quietly, softly, _everything is too soft here, soft ground, soft grass, soft light,_ and I yank the second one harder, hear the cloth lining the leather tear, and I want to scream as it falls, but I can't, _can't,_ must not. 

I fall to my knees, ignoring the glint of discarded metal, ignoring the shape of eye and sword and circle that I cannot ever forget, cannot ever accept, cannot ever abandon, ignoring how the ground is still too soft, no stone to break my fall, to blunt hard edges, to echo past the scream in my head. 

_How can I?_

But how could I not? 

I am the only one. 

I hate my so-called friends and followers, for the choices that they might have that I do not, will not, _cannot,_ I hate myself, for staying, for not being able to tell them. 

I could tell them to their faces, each and every one, and they wouldn't see, they wouldn't understand. 

My wrist turns, and I spread my fingers, glare at the pain-that-isn't-pain. 

_If I cut off my hand, would the Mark still be there?_

_Could Solas pick it up and use it?_

But I couldn't leave Solas here alone with them. 

Never, I could never. 

And Cole. 

They'd forget to take care of him, without me here to remind them. 

No they wouldn't. Varric would keep an eye on him. 

I can't think about Blackwall. 

Solas can study the rifts, the echoes of Corypheus' plans, Hawke can take them to the Wardens, if it wasn't for the Mark they wouldn't need _me._

I miss my Clan. The smell of their campfires, the Keeper's soft lilting whistle as she makes her rounds, _my place, my purpose._

_Oh Ghilan'nain, I even miss the smell of wet halla in the morning._

I can't afford to cry, I shall have to leave this tent eventually, have to face them. 

_Oh, Solas, you are the only one I can trust, and I would give you my life if it would help, even though you've told me nothing about you, nothing of who you are rather than what you've seen._

_I love your stories,_ lethallin _, but I do not know what to do with them._

_I don't know what to do with anything._

I certainly don't know how to be an Inquisitor. 

I could let Corypheus destroy us all. 

We deserve it, don't we? 

At least if the monster wins it will be quick. 

If the monster wins it will be over. 

Better than this slow loss of life, a drop of blood scattered here and there over the centuries. 

_Oh, Creators, why did you leave? Why do you let us die? So slowly, so we can pretend, now and then, that it isn't fatal. That some day we'll stand again. Cruelest of all your lies, all your silences, letting that story stand as if it were true._

My hands are damp, warm and salt, and I can't stop, but I dare not start, and my cloak is rough, but it will do, and I bury my face in it and pretend I'm only breathing. 

* * *

I avoid everyone 'til the sun sets, and longer, until the camp quiets down for the midnight watch. 

But he's at my side as soon as I slip past the tent-flap, and he follows me as I clamber up the wall to find a place to perch, to look at the stars. 

To pretend my face isn't still hot with tears. "I can't do this." 

"I know, _lethallan._ " 

"But I have to. No one else ... if I don't." 

His voice is even drier than usual. "Even grand Dalish ambassadors are allowed to rest, sometimes." 

I almost smile. My throat burns too much to manage it, but it is closer than I would have expected, even a blink sooner in time. He had not been impressed by my proud declaration that I represented the Dalish, that the Inquisition was for everyone. 

Not that he'd said anything. The tilt of his eyebrow is devastatingly eloquent sometimes. 

"Thank you, Solas." My voice is barely a whisper, but he nods, as regal as ever. 

As calm and easy as ever. 

As if guarding me from my own people while I cried was a perfectly normal duty. 

Maybe he'd been expecting it. 

Maybe I should have. 

I swallow, too hard, still burning, and let my fingers find the edge of my collar, the tear from where I'd ripped off my sigils. 

It hadn't helped, and I'd collected them again, slid them into my pocket. 

Maybe Dagna will help me fix them. Get her interested in a better way to attach them next to the mail panels, and it won't even occur to her to ask me how or why I'd ruined them. 

Much easier than all the other things I might have ruined today. 

* * *

**Exalted Plains**

* * *

I'm running away, I know, but sometimes you have to keep moving in a different direction. 

That's a terrible excuse, but I'm clinging to it anyways. 

Besides, I don't run very far. We're in the Dales already, and Solas' Spirit Friend needs help. 

But I have to remind myself, again, that I do like Scout Harding, _I do,_ because I have never wanted to punch someone who wasn't a corpse or a demon or darkspawn in the face _this much_ , when she tries to tell me my own history again. 

I know what the Exalted Plains are, _Dirthavaren,_ yet another promise broken. 

I don't feel like crying now. 

I suppose that's an improvement. 

There are more statues. 

Of course. 

Proud and cruel and haughty, claiming comfort in the light of their flames. 

I could knock them down. 

Break them into rubble. 

I could get away with it, no one would dare stop me. 

But they'd gossip behind closed doors, and aid to the Inquisition would slow, and Corypheus would win, and however tempting ruination, I don't actually want my friends to die slow painful deaths. 

He'd make his way north beyond the Marches eventually too, and then my Clan would be gone, and that hurts even through the burn of my thoughts. 

Besides, Cole would be sad and Solas would be disappointed, and Varric would have to play Wicked Grace with Cassandra, and I'm not sure the world would survive that, either. 

I can picture the stables at Skyhold, empty because he would refuse to rest, or because Corypheus' voice was finally strong enough to fool even him, and my jaw tightens and I carefully return to glaring at ugly human statues. 

Maybe I kick one, in passing, but no one has to know. 

Solas coughs. 

Of course he notices. 

" _Ar tu na'lin assan'ma_ ," I mutter, and he has the nerve to smile at me. 

At least he doesn't correct my grammar. 

Again. 

But there are more so-called freemen to kill, _I will kill them all,_ and then shades, and I have never been so glad to see a rage demon, _I am angrier than you, your fire doesn't scare me_ , and it dies, oh how it dies, and my mouth is wide and grinning and I find _another_ and I fling myself forward after it, again, _again,_ and there is a shield in the way and I stop, and blink, and glare into eyes that are too tight and pale. 

"Inquisitor." 

It's all he says, slow and even, no soft rumble beneath his words to ease them along, no smile hiding behind his beard, and the back of my throat burns, sharp and bitter. I lift my chin, and each breath is too deep, too fast, my chest hurts and my face burns and my knees crack and my shoulder is a giant knot of something I don't want to think about, and he blinks, and there is a shiver of something cold and shameful beneath the fire in my stomach, and there are shadows beneath his eyes, _my fault, all my fault,_ and I close my eyes and swallow. 

_Ir abelas,_ I think, but he does not know what that means, and I do not seem able to say it in any other way. 

"Blackwall," I start, but my voice cracks, so I stop, and open my eyes, and there's _something_ about his face, and my chest aches now, and I press a hand to my breastbone and try again. 

"You're right," he never said I was being reckless, but it's obvious I've risked us all, and that's not who I am, not what I do, not what they need. "Could you help me back to camp?" 

"Of course." He adjusts sword and shield, and offers me his arm, and I cling to it, and I have to close my eyes again, to ease the burn, and my breath shudders through me on its way out. "This way, my lady," and now I'm afraid I'm crying again, but he leads me slowly, steadily, carefully enough I don't have to open my eyes, can follow the shift of his weight and the rough murmur of his voice all the way back to my tent. 

"Thank you." I sound like a sick crow, but I make the words come out, when we've stopped, because he needs to know, must not think he deserves to be cast aside, simply because I do not know how to speak around the knot in my heart, because I do not know how to be _this,_ both Dalish, and not, Inquisitor, and still myself? 

But it is not his fault. 

He nods, and he turns away, and the familiar shape of his shadow crossing the ground, broad and dark and almost solid, makes my throat burn again, so I slip back into my tent to dry my eyes in private. 

* * *

**Skyhold**

* * *

It takes longer than I like, to get back to the Sky I need. 

It seems easier to think, the higher I go, until I find myself draped over the largest owl in my quarters, almost up into the roof, as if the stone really could take me back to Andruil Herself, could tell me what to do, how to honor my people even as I work with those who do not even see us. 

_Blackwall sees me._

He doesn't know what it costs me, because I have not told him, because no one would have ever told him, but he can see that there is a cost. 

I see it in his eyes, too pale and empty in the morning, when first he looks at me. 

He hides it better, later, with helmets and travel and battles between us, but it's still there, the pain between us, in stiff shoulders and silences that are no longer comfortable. 

We work together, of course, I listen to what he says, watch how he fights, share the chores of camp and travel, and the fire died down to embers; I am not so reckless again. But it is not the same. 

I miss him. 

I hate myself, a little, for how much, but I cannot go back to who I was, or where, and never will; is it so wrong that I can see him there, when I try to look forward instead? 

_Yes._

I'm not sure the voice that can list all the ways this is a mistake will ever go away, but at least it's getting quieter. 

I hadn't let Blackwall listen to that voice inside him, I can't very well turn around and do it myself. 

I sigh, and turn my head, and lean against the owl's head until I can feel the press of a stone feather into my cheekbone. 

I know he will not invite himself up to see me, ever again, will not push where he thinks he is not wanted, or does not belong. 

He will think he deserves to be lost somewhere, alone. 

For a man with years of life and battle behind him, with such a feel for land and tactics, he can be stunningly blind. 

I should know, I clearly have the same trouble. 

* * *

There's a moment in the early morning when Skyhold, full as it is becoming of workmen and soldiers and healers and even _shem'len_ nobles, is quiet. 

Not at dawn, when so many get up to spar, or clean, or care for the horses, and the merchants are setting up their wares, but later, after everyone has drifted away to eat, and before they manage to get back to work. 

That's when I make myself go down to the stables, slipping down mostly empty stairs, until I am leaning against a wide wooden frame, and I can see him, standing before his workbench, hands pressed flat to the surface, head bowed. 

I am not arrogant enough to assume I am the only thing that could be troubling him ... and yet I am, because the voice in my head is back, whispering, _my fault, all my fault, turn around and leave before I make it worse again._

It's a stupid voice, for all it sounds as sweet as a lullaby humming between my ears. 

"I'm sorry." 

He doesn't move, or only barely; I can just see his fingers curl against the rough boards beneath them, so I know he heard me. 

I move closer, and his head shakes, a whisper of hair against his collar, and I stop. 

"Don't say that," his voice is rough, rougher than usual, low and almost jagged. "You have nothing to be sorry for -" 

"But I -" 

"Please." 

I close my mouth, and nod, though he cannot see me, and take the last few steps to stand beside him. 

I lean closer, let my hand settle on top of his, feel the shift of his fingers beneath mine. "I miss you." 

I can feel his sigh, a heavy shift in his shoulders. He lifts his head, and there's _something_ in those eyes again, too wide this time, his face too still. 

I don't know what else to say, so I wait, and I look at him, at the threads of grey in his hair, and the creases by his eyes, more of them from smiles than I think he will ever realize. 

He blinks, and I can feel the weight of it, somehow, and when his eyes open again his hand slips out from beneath mine, and he lifts it, slowly, towards my face. "And I you, my lady." 

His fingertips are so gentle against my temple, and I let my head rest against his shoulder, and we just stand there, for awhile, surrounded by dust and wood and the smell of sun and grass and horses. 

The air is soft, and his gambeson, and even the worn planks give beneath my feet, and I find I do not mind the soft as much, today. I can feel him breathing, can just occasionally count the rhythm of his heartbeat as it catches against my skin. 

The light's changed by the time I say anything, clearer, somehow, the angle higher, the shadows smaller. "Have you ever heard of _Vir Tanadahl_?" 

"I have not." His voice is so quiet, slow and careful, like the way I hear him talk to the horses sometimes, so they won't shy away. 

I suppose I've earned that. 

I find myself wondering how he'd deal with halla, for a moment, and maybe I've finally found a smile again, because he's just so _broad_ and they seem so delicate, when you don't know better. 

"It's," I pause, because I thought I'd known what I was going to say, but I don't, not at all. "A path for hunters, for The People, really, it's a ... creed? _The Way of Three Trees_. Three becoming something else, something _more,_ an arrow, a bow, a forest." 

He grunts, but it's a listening sort of _thrum_ against my ear, and I feel the smile flicker across my face again. 

"Fly straight and true," I lift one finger, and then a second, "bend but do not break, and," my voice fades, and I have to take a breath, even as a third finger lifts. "Together we are stronger than the one." 

My hand closes into a fist, and his hand wraps around it, his glove softening the edges of my knuckles. I can't see my hand at all, when he is done, hidden inside his, and he pulls me closer, 'til our hands rest against his chest. 

_Together._

"It has always just meant the Clan, before, that we, the last of the _Elvhenan,_ are together." I have to swallow, but I can feel him nod, so I don't stop. "Together against everyone else. Against the humans." 

He is solid, and warm, and so very _very_ still, and I never want to move again. 

"I will always be the enemy, to your Chantry," the feel of something caught low in his throat is sharper this time, and I talk over it before it can become anything else. "But I can't let it be my enemy, not if I want to save anyone." 

_Much less everyone._

"We has to be _more,_ if I'm going to save you." 

"No, my lady," his voice rasps, and catches, and breaks free again with an audible _break_ between the words. He shifts his weight, shifts me in his arms, until I am no longer leaning against him, and I lift my eyes to look at him, at the sorrow that never quite disappears from his face, a crease between his brows. 

I shake my head, and then go still when he reaches for my hand, _the other hand_ , the one that no one ever touches, that I try not to let touch anyone else, the one I try not to think about too much, or the stretch of _too much space_ between the bones will drive me mad, it _aches,_ and it twitches, as if there was some way to ease the twist deep inside, and then he grips it, firm and steady, and pulls it up to meet my other hand, until my fingers wrap together, and he lifts them further, and kisses them both, the barest, softest brush of his lips against my skin. 

The Mark is the only reason why I'm _here_ , and I hate it, and I'm grateful, because _here_ , here I can do something, (here I have to do something, the only one, the whole world watching), here I am alone, and yet, here, _here_ I have met another family, stranger than my Clan, but oddly true, nonetheless ... _and Blackwall._

Who kisses _my_ hand, the Inquisitor's hand, as if it were a simple thing. 

"There is no saving me," he whispers, as if saying it makes it so, "and you should not worry so when there are so many others who need you." 

I smile then, at last, I feel it, warm and slow and small. I sigh. and his hands tighten around mine, but only a little, still gentle against my skin. My darling idiot, who guards me from everyone, even himself, and looks at me as if I am the reason for the sun to rise. 

"I'm sorry, but it's much too late to try and make me let go now." 

He shakes his head again, but slower now, and he is smiling too, just a little, just enough for me to see. Our hands slowly drop, 'til they're caught between us, and then he leans in, and he kisses my nose, right where the lines of _vallaslin_ meet. 

I close my eyes to catch the burn of tears, and I cannot feel my heartbeat because my heart is in my throat, and fills my chest, and oh yes, _it is much too late._

" _Vir Adahlen, ma vhenan._ " I tell him. " _Together we are strong._ " 


End file.
